You Must Be This Tall to Borrow This Book
by Boosette
Summary: or How Clint Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Nancy Drew. The one where Clint Barton has an ongoing and complex relationship with libraries, used bookstores, and that one box of his mom's romance novels he found in the coat closet when he was five.


**38.**

"I should release my holds," Steve said, reloading.

For the second time, Clint drew, aimed slightly off straight up, and loosed a brick-and-concrete anchor. His shot landed home in the side of one of the brick buildings they were crouched between, and from there a quick rappel up to escape.

Well, a clearer vantage point for Clint and escape for Steve, who'd be better off in an open space. Steve drew back between the buildings as their adversaries stopped shooting for a second.

"Your ... holds?_"_ he asked, handing Steve a carabiner.

"For the new Maisey Dobbs," he said. "And there's one about the post-modern movement — "

Clint looked down over his shoulder, rope in hands. "You think of that _now?"_

"There was a lull! Other people might want to read them!"

A bullet ricocheted off the wall beside Steve's head; he raised his shield against the next volley. Clint hoped his ropes would hold braced off the wall, far enough to get off two shots — thermite; he was out of exploding heads, but these would be distracting enough for their needs right now.

Steve managed to lay cover-fire while the arrowheads sparked and flamed with chemical reaction. On the roof, Steve said, "The post-modernism only exists in three libraries, and two of them are non-circulating — they got mine from a college in Yuma. I think it's someone's thesis."

"Have they given you an assistant yet? What with you being public-face-of-the-team and all?"

"I turned them down. I like to answer my own mail."

"Take the assistant. Have 'em pick up your books while we're busy being shot at next time."

**35.**

They're all laid out basically the same way.

Lobby, automated check-out, that's new — signs to the children's and teens' sections, reference in the back, with an exit. Stacks inbetween. Stairwells also in the back, fire-escapes in the middle, if there's more than one floor; special collections will be tucked away in a hidden corner, and he could hide there and likely not be found.

Instead, this:

Public, lightly-populated civilian space. Park just to the east, small business district and a grocery store to the west.

Clint walked up to the checkout desk and said, "In about six minutes, three armed men are going to walk through the back door near the reference desk. Call 911 _now. _Tell them there's a shooter on Benson and Main. They aren't actually interested in you."

He stepped out.

Could've ducked in-between the stacks, as well; he didn't pin his tail as having been particularly observant. _Stick my head in an old _Guinness Book___ and they'd probably miss me._

That was how Clint Barton was banned from the entire San Bernardino Public Library _system._

**28.**

It only took him _five years _to figure out that SHIELD HQ kept its own stock of reading material ... just one side of the psychologists' offices, like they were trying to draw their agents into mental health care they didn't want but probably needed. Clint snuck in after office hours, and how pathetic was that, that he'd go to lengths to avoid talking about all the things he was perfectly capable of dealing with inside the privacy of his own head?

Which, the inside of his head currently felt about like a house on fire, and sleep was something he could do without, and he'd already spent more hours at the gym and the range than he could count outside of referencing his check-ins and checkouts. This wasn't really about him. Between Minsk and New Jersey and the woman in the holding cell in the third sub-basement, every time somebody had ever told him he wasn't a soldier felt like a lie.

The card reader accepted his ID, the lights turned on automatically — not full fluorescent, which he was duly grateful for. _Not a soldier, _he thought_. S_till accountable for following orders to the letter. No room for dissent, no room for question, no room for judgment calls. No room for picking up and leaving, because what's waiting for him outside the organization?

He wound up with a brand-new copy of _Cannery Row, _trade paperback and bright-colored cover in his hands. He scanned the barcode and his ID on the way out, and then with what felt like no steps in between, he was in the third sub-basement pulling rank on the nightshift guards like he wasn't a soldier at all.

"What's she going to do with a book, guys, hit you over the head with it?"

They let him through grudgingly.

Romanova didn't look at him; she was sitting crouched on her cot, itself built into the wall. She wore socks and white pajamas, her nails were clipped short, and he was fully aware that the only reason he was not dead right now was because she _decided _she was better off not killing him, or maybe, maybe because she felt like she owed him that favor.

"Wasn't expecting to see you here," she said, mimicking his own accent and speech patterns. Sounded strange, coming from her throat.

"Thought you might be getting bored," Clint said. He put the book down at the foot of her cot, and nodded as he stepped out.

She didn't say a damn thing.

First time Natalia failed to surprise him.

Couple days later, when he came back, the book's spine was creased and she was reclining.

"That was _insipid_," was all she had to say.

Because he felt particularly evil, Clint handed over _Twice-told Tales _and_The Sound and the Fury. _She held the second one up, canted her head sideways and said, "Could you be any more American?"

**21.**

Heat and air-conditioning. That was most of the draw, these days.

In February in Chicago, mostly heat.

Also, point of reference, free, and nobody actually did more than glare at him as they tried to figure out how he'd gone without a shower. Which was also less of a problem in February than in July. Clint showed up a respectable fifteen minutes after the Edgewater branch opened at 8:00, and left an equally respectable twenty minutes before it closed.

He _could_ go home; he had his aunt's phone number memorized, and she'd make up the spare room or even western union him enough money for a bus ticket, except ... he could go home but that didn't mean going home was any kind of option.

Didn't have ID to get a card, so he set up shop at a desk in a corner, near the windows and next to a heating vent, and decided it was time to catch up on all the books he should've read while he was requesting choose-your-own-adventures as a kid. The librarians know him, and they don't talk to him except the niceties of how-are-you-today and are-you-finding-everything-you-need? and please-let-us-know-if-there's-anything-we-can-do-to-help. The 18th was particularly miserable, mostly because the 17th was closed, and one of the library workers comes up to him around two in the afternoon. He was eyeball-deep in Cervantes, and it's more entertaining than he'd thought it'd be.

The library worker identified herself as 'Shell; she handed over a sandwich and a tall-tale of an excuse that the delivery had gotten their order wrong, and sent one too many.

"Ma'am," he began.

"Ma'am is my grandmother," 'Shell replied, cutting him off.

"Thank you," Clint said.

Ate the sandwich, because six months after the people who'd raised him scattered and years without his family pounded in his head that you _do not _turn down free food.

Spent the next day on the pay-phone outside a 7-11 tracking down Trickshot (holding his head above water in South Carolina). South Carolina was warm, and a completely different kind of patronizing-polite. Trick was thinking about setting up shop as a bail bondsman.

Spent the day after down in Lincoln Park, with a milk crate and a game of three-card-monte.

Third day he got on a bus.

He never did finish his book.

**15.**

Pertinax's Circus and Traveling Show passed a used bookstore on its way into Indianapolis. Clint didn't think about it much, just unloaded and helped set up with the rest of the guys, even though he remembered the cross street and the direction he'd have to walk to get back there (get back to the _freeway_), and it wasn't like there was much chance of him getting inside.

They had a good week, with a few nominal disasters, good week defined as "they got paid at the end and nobody wound up in jail". Jacques pulled a hamstring Wednesday night, and Barney wound up out on the floor show Thursday-Friday-Saturday, not actually fumbling with not-his-sword, but nobody boo-ed him out of the tent and that was okay.

Clint thought he could've done better himself but he didn't say anything, because he didn't need that kind of upset right now and his brother'd already decided he didn't think Trickshot was decent enough for them to hang around with. Which, _Barney's_ taste in people had never been spectacular, and Clint's reached the point where he rolls his eyes, says fine and does what he wants. (Part of it's that Trickshot and Barney get along like a dog and a bone; part of it's that he likes Clint better; part of it's that if his brother tries acting parental one more time Clint would not hesitate for a second in punching him in the face.)

Still. They got out happy this time around, and a bunch of the guys headed out to a bar Clint's fake ID wasn't good enough to get him into, that wouldn't even have been a problem if they hadn't gotten busted a month ago. It was close to the bookstore, and he had a twenty in his pocket, the rest of his pay tucked safely in the lining of his backpack, and he made the walk there. Quick and _swift_; he blended into the walls as he went, watching street signs and making sure he could recite their names and his turns in reverse order as he went.

No good getting left in Indiana, armpit of the Midwest, if he could help it.

The place had newspaper-covered windows with stacks of books peeking through, and a faded, ripped-off sheet of yellow legal paper announcing its hours: Weekends, 3PM-10PM or whenever, weekdays, 12PM, or whenever, -7PM negotiable. An old cardboard sign said, DO NOT PUSH ON GLASS. Clint swung the door inward with the bar handle, and looked around for a person. None to be had. Plastic sign on the front desk, heaped with books, old toys, and piles of Misc., read, NO returns NO exchanges ALL sales final WIPE YOUR FEET.

Clint stepped back onto the mat and wiped his feet, even though it wasn't wet outside.

"'Lo?" he said, but nobody answered.

He made for the adventure stories, and paused by bankers boxes full of floppy comic books. He could spend _all day there, trying to put together and arc or a run, referencing "find out in Issue # _"_ bubbles, and never come out with a whole story. You couldn't really sell comics back, and they'd get all crumpled on the road, and then he'd never actually find out what happened unless he got really lucky, and Clint didn't get lucky.

Crumbling spines were a no, and he passed up anything he'd read already, as well as anything he hadn't that would get him mocked. He wound up with two Conans and a Zorro, and a hardcover of _Steel and Jade _by some foreign guy whose name had more consonants than anyone should have to pronounce at once. Science fiction section gave him The Best Science Fiction Stories and Novels: Ninth Series. He knelt on the floor with his growing pile — skipped over anything with dragons or ponies.

_Barney's never going to let me live this down,_ he thought. Clint hovered over a hardcover with a black dust jacket, almost brand new._The Han Solo Adventures. _Somebody'd brought it in, or received it as a gift and not wanted it. He pulled it off the shelf and looked for an inscription, and found one on the inside in pencil: Love, Grandma. He'd throw out the dust jacket and be careful Barney never saw the spine. He didn't even know people could write books about movies.

As if through some work of sorcery, the owner appeared at the front. She was maybe five-three, with long silver hair, held off her neck with pins and ties. Her entire person was smudged over with dust, including a streak of it on her left cheek. He bet her library at home was amazing, but Clint didn't ask about it because it seemed like prying and he didn't want to be rude.

"We've got a special going — regular price is half-off the cover for new books and hardbacks, or you can pay by weight, one dollar a pound."

Clint flipped the Star Wars book over, saw the price, and nearly flinched. Didn't though. "I'll pay by the pound," he said, which didn't sound half as cool when he said it as it did in his head.

He walked out with eleven dollars worth of books, picked up lunch on at a corner diner on the way back to the circus site, and crumpled the dust jacket into a tiny little ball before he started reading.

**9.**

Clint's aunt always spoke to him very slowly, like he wasn't all there or maybe she just didn't know how to deal with the couple of kids she'd inherited, like they'd come in and broken her life. "I'm going out to work, and I need you to not answer the door for strangers and be very good while I'm gone, okay?"

Barney'd already disappeared for the day, no use looking for him, he'd come back when he did. June promised it would warm up and start getting sticky any minute, but they hadn't hauled out the one window air-conditioning unit yet because it lived in the attic most of the year, and it was a hassle to get. Clint's dad used to do it as a favor.

"I will be _fine_," he replied, emphasizing each word, mimicking her tone because that, at least, he could do and get away with. He just needed for her to leave the house already, and then Clint would be gone, too, the door locked behind him and the spare key in his pocket.

His aunt sighed once, pulled him into a really awkward hug, and drove off. Clint waited five minutes to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything, locked the door on the handle, and dug around in the flowerpot next to the mat for the spare key. He _knew it should be there._

Wasn't there.

_No no no no no._

He looked under the mat, under the flowerpot, behind the one loose brick, and they _had _a spare key, he'd used it for almost three weeks, every day since school let out, and it was always inside the flowerpot.

Okay, Plan B, windows.

Clint circled the house, trying every one on the first floor — all locked. He climbed up on the porch railing, and then jumped straight up to grab onto the rain gutter. His hand slipped on rotting leaves, and he swung a little, but didn't fall. After a second he got one leg onto the roof, then the other, and he checked the second floor windows too. _All locked._

He couldn't get to the one attic window, but it was painted shut anyway, so he sat down on the roof and didn't cry, because crying was for babies and he _didn't._

Twelve blocks to the library, and he wouldn't be able to come home and get lunch, but they _were_ open 'til 8:30 in the summer. If he walked slow they'd be opening right when he got there, so Clint walked slower than he'd ever walked in his life.

Barney had to have the key.

Clint determined to _murder _his brother in a lot of really exacting, painful ways when he saw him next.

He didn't manage slow the entire way there. When he walked inside the smell of books and cold air from the new air conditioner hit him, and he felt himself relax just enough. The librarians all knew him — he'd been in every day they were open since his parents died, since he and Barney'd moved in with their aunt — but they left him alone to be quiet and read and he, for his part, was quiet and read. They didn't make him talk about anything but books and then only when he ran out of whatever it was he'd _been _reading, and that was only to give him something else to keep him entertained.

"Barton!" Lou — who was about 800 years old — called to him first thing.

Clint perked up, said, "Yeah?!" and a second later, quieter, "Yeah?"

"Your requests came in," he said.

"You said Wednesday!" Clint replied, and maybe the universe was trying to make up for him having a stupid brother. "The ... the one book, the one in Davenport — it was checked out!"

"Came back early," Lou replied; he disappeared back into the office and returned with a stack twelve books high, bright yellow and blue covers and plastic-covered jackets and a couple of paperbacks the looked like they'd seen better days.

"Two weeks, two renewals, unless you want to check out as a vacation read; then it's six weeks, one two-week renewal."

"Vacation," Clint said immediately.

He'd probably bring them back way sooner, but he wanted options.

His favorite seat was open, and he tucked himself sideways into it, his books piled beside him within his line of sight. He opened up _Nancy Drew #61: The Sawmi's Ring_, from Davenport, first.

**7.**

His mom had a box full of paperbacks in the coat closet in the front hallway.

Clint found it when he was five, when his parents were yelling at each other and Barney was yelling at him, and he just wanted to go somewhere quiet and be alone and not have anyone yelling. The covers all had half-naked ladies on the front, or couples who looked like they were about to bite each other's faces off, but nobody looked for Clint in the coat closet and there was a light he could turn on from inside, and he had books he could read if he wanted to.

Once his mom had told him that they were her special grownup books, that he wouldn't like them anyway, and so the first couple times he hid inside the coat closet, Clint didn't read any of her books. After a while, when he'd figured out that the only way he could wedge himself onto the shelf at the top of the closet was to open the door and balance on the handle, he decided he'd just sit in the corner and listen and wait. He stuffed a sweater against the jamb so nobody would see that he had the light on.

It took him a year and a half to get through the whole box, and he skipped over the kissing parts after the first three or four. He could find them easily because they were almost all dog-eared, or the spine was so creased the books opened there on their own.

They were all the same anyway, and _maybe_, Clint thought, maybe the boys would have more luck if they paid attention to what the ladies were doing and what they said.

**3.**

Clinton practiced for forever, getting his letters shaped right, writing them again and again and _again_, asking his mom to show him just one more time. He repeated what the librarian told him weeks and weeks and months and years ago inside his head, and out loud.

"You can have your own card when you can write your own name."

Ns were tricky. They looked really different between big and little letters, and sometimes he wrote them backwards, and his mom would tell him that that wasn't a real letter. His brother had had a card for _two years,_ before he could remember, and he'd take it out of their mom's wallet sometimes and shove it in Clinton's face and say, "LOOK WHAT I'VE GOT THAT YOU DON'T."

He wrote his name ten times on a receipt from the grocery store and showed it to his mom, and she closed her eyes and smiled a little, and said, "Okay, you win."

She made him wear his seatbelt even though the shoulder strap rubbed his neck, but he didn't complain _today_ because today he was getting his own card he could have all the books he wanted whenever he wanted. That was how it worked.

They got there, and Clinton _ran _all the way to the door, grabbed onto one handle of the big door with both hands, and started walking backward. Barney trailed behind their mom, like he didn't really want to be there, but Barney could go eat a worm.

The door did not move.

He pulled harder; it swung open easily (not because his mom helped him, although she _was _right there)_._

Mrs. Hall greeted them with a smile and a wave, and his mom said, "Clinton wants his own card."

He smiled and stood up extra-straight. Barney had disappeared off in the children's section.

"I am so sorry," Mrs. Hall said, "If you'd come in Friday it wouldn't be a problem, but he needs to be able to see over the counter."

"You must be this tall to ride this ride, really?" his mom said. She used the same voice she used on Dad when he came home late.

Clinton reached up to the counter: he could get his elbows up to the edge if he reached his arms straight up. He grabbed the edge with his fingers, took a breath, and then thought, _I can't do it. _He looked around and saw the shorter desk for wheelchairs, started running for it before his mom could stop him,

There, he said, "I _can see!"_

As a second thought, Clinton decided he would look _extra sad _because that usually worked when he wanted something and grownups didn't think he should have it.

Mrs. Hall _giggled_. Then she came over bent down to look at Clinton straight in the eye.

"Okay," she said, "But you still have to write your name."

It felt like forever while his mom and Mrs. Hall filled out forms, until finally Mrs. Hall handed him his card and a marker. He set it carefully on the floor, uncapped the marker, and sat on his knees by the card. Bit his lip thinking about the letters that lived in his head that were _all hiding right now._

He came up with CLiиT baRtoN, not his _whole name, _but he hoped they wouldn't notice. And he had a plan if they did. He handed the card to his mom, who also pried the marker out of his other hand, and then turned both over to Mrs. Hall.

The librarian inspected his work, hmmed, then said, "He passes."

"Oh, thank God," his mom said, low enough that you almost couldn't hear it.

Mrs. Hall gave the card back to his mom, who tucked it into her wallet, then cupped the back of his head with her hand. "All right, Clinton, let's go get you some books."

"I'm _Clint_," he replied, "Card says so."

**BONUS:**

**38.**

(Or, the one where Amazon's recommendation feature sucks.)

"I live in a three-hundred square foot studio; I don't want to _own _every book I_read_."

Stark looked at him for a second, then gave the shit-eatingest grin Clint had seen on him yet. "Ereader? Cloud storage? We do live in the future, y'know. Also, Stark Tower, standing offer."

"I hate you."


End file.
